


A Silence Like the Roar of Thunder

by Scarecrowqueen



Series: The Ghost Story Compendium [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Grief/Mourning, Haunting, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Madness, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Psychological Horror, Revenge, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 18:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Losing Hank was the worst thing that Connor could have ever imagined surviving.  Losing his mind a little bit in the aftermath didn't even compare.*****Connor had never understood the meaning of the phrase “time lost all meaning” until now.  Make no mistake, his chronometer was functioning just fine, in fact he could tell you down to the nanosecond how long it had been since he’d come home and found-And found-And found-Well.  (The thought stuck in his head like a skipping record, screaming at him from the darkest corner of his electronic brain in every silent moment to follow.What did you find Connor?  What did you find?)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a ride and a half. Written for the HankCon Reverse Big Bang; mostly late at night with my crying over the keyboard and begging for it to end already. What an experience. Thanks to my fantastic artist [DoraThot](https://twitter.com/DoraThot) for creating the art that inspired this all, thanks to my fantastic beta MessMissTess for turning this fic around to me in a matter of hours, and thanks to Anifanatical for organizing this whole thing; and it's been a pleasure participating!

[Gorgeous art is here!](https://twitter.com/DoraThot/status/1166283969056378885?s=19)

Behind every man now alive stand thirty ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living."

\- Arthur C. Clarke

Connor ran; feet slapping the wet concrete and shoes splashing into puddles, sending plumes of dirty water away from each impact at high speed. Connor ran like he was made for it, like it was all he was meant for; artificial lungs working overtime to regulate his internal temperature, arms pumping at his side, gun clenched so tightly in his right fist that his false skin had begun to peel back where the metal made contact with his body, and left his fingers bone-white against the black grip. It rained like the sky was falling; like someone should have been building the Ark and gathering the animals in pairs, like the universe was trying to wash itself clean. Water sheeted down from the gunmetal grey heavens, slicking over his face, obscuring his vision and trailing over the corners of his open mouth. His clothes were plastered to his skin with the moisture, although the heavy denim and cotton did very little to slow his desperate progress. He pelted wildly between buildings, each empty warehouse on either side rising to dark skies like jagged, broken teeth in an ugly urban mouth. Economic recession had hit this industrial district hard, with almost eighty percent of businesses boarded up and forgotten. There was more than plenty of room here for criminals and malcontents alike to both conduct their business and to hide themselves from the law. 

(Worse though, was that there were plenty of places to also hide Connor’s beloved but phenomenally stupid partner, and when Connor found that reckless, careless sonofabitch, he was going to _kill him dead. _

After making sure that he was alive and well, of course.)

The cacophony of the storm; the endless rain hammering down onto concrete and metal, and the grumbling, hungry thunder growling overhead drowned out any noises that could have guided Connor’s way. The cold wetness in the air, combined with the solid steel walls around him, meant that his infrared and heat vision sensors were mostly useless. He was as good as deaf and blind, reduced to only slightly above human senses by the post-twilight dark and the vicious storm unleashing it’s fury upon the city. Rounding another corner, he searched frantically for a clue, a sign; a footprint or scuff mark or discarded cigarette butt, anything that would point him in a direction, give him a destination before it was too late. Hank had been in their custody for too long, and backup was still too far off, and Connor was all that was standing between Hank and an untimely death, assuming he wasn’t already too late.

(Oh God, RA9, and any other deities Connor had never believed in, _don’t let it be too late_.)

When the anomaly came, Connor almost missed it. Catching it only from the corner of his eye, it took him two extra, precious steps to stop and pivot, spinning around to face the door; steel, innocuous, and left cracked open only a few bare inches. Maybe it was nothing at all, but it was all he’d had to go on, so Connor yanked it open and slipped inside, moving as swiftly and silently as he could manage, which was an impressive amount of both, by design. Gun up and safety off, Connor edged his way down the hall, back to the wall as best he could, peering around corners and into doorways as he went. There were signs of recent activity; shuffling footprints in the dust and damp spots as if the people who’d traversed these halls ahead of him had been dripping wet, too. They were just ahead of him, he knew it; _swore_ he could taste Hank’s cologne over the damp and mildew in the air. 

Rounding one last corner, the hallway spilled into an open shop floor past double doors that were sagged almost totally off their hinges like pair of tragic, broken wings. In the wide space beyond, old manufacturing equipment sulked. Disused and left to rust, they loomed in shadows, standing like eerie statues in the almost perfect dark. Only the occasional flash of lightening and a lone flashlight lit the cavernous space. Left abandoned on a rickety old folding table in the far corner, the sallow, anemic yellow light from the small bulb illuminated a chilling scene; Hank, on his knees in the dirt and dust, hands behind his head in classic ‘under arrest’ pose, and the gang flunkie he’d been tailing previously had his gun jammed right against Hank’s left temple. If it hadn’t been for the drumming sound of the continuous rain reducing the thug’s words to nothing but sharp, angry hisses, Connor might have been allowed a glimpse into the young man’s motivations or possibly even managed a recording that could be used for evidence later. As it was, his nerves were frayed to their last and he was feeling neither charitable, nor willing to risk Hank’s wellbeing further with any sort of delay. The gun was up and the shot was fired so quickly Connor’s synapses felt like they’d barely sent the signal to his arms at all. The young man pinwheeled back almost comically, his gun clattering to the floor where Hank dove for it, coming up to one knee prepared to shoot in a textbook recovery, but the perp was down and groaning, bleeding from a bullet hole in his right arm. Neat and tidy, a classic through and through injury that was mostly flesh wound, the precision of the shot owed to perfect android reflexes and aim. There was a risk of infection inherent, both from the clothing stuck to the bullet hole and the environmental factors of the dirty, disused building around them, not to mention the blood loss, but Connor was confident he’d mostly recover given the proper medical attention. Medical attention he’d get shortly, since the sounds of oncoming sirens were beginning to rise, close enough to be heard over the ongoing deluge.

Together, Hank and Connor cuffed and Mirandized the sobbing suspect, careful not to jostle him unduly. While Connor had been justified in shooting without warning by the imminent threat to his partner’s life, he wasn’t interested in causing any further damage. Police brutality of a cooperating suspect was something the duo found distasteful at best and horrific at worst. Connor never enjoyed discharging his firearm, but he’d enjoy burying his partner even less, and needs must where the Devil drove, as the saying went. All in all, it was almost another half hour before the paramedics had performed first aid and then taken the perp away to the hospital for better treatment, and eventually on to detainment. Soon they’d also cleared Hank to leave after treatment, declaring him mostly fine save for a few bumps and bruises. Connor stood to the side, tucked under the dubious shelter of a rusty fire escape. A discrete sentinel, Connor watched the EMT efficiently bandaging Hank’s knuckles; scraped from the fistfight he’d lost as soon as the gun was pulled in his face. Closing his eyes momentarily, Connor breathed deep, feeling the unneeded air settle into his plasteel frame. He was exhausted down to the bones of him, weary and fatigued from panic, concern, and whatever passed for the equivalent of an adrenaline crash now that his processors were no longer functioning at max capacity. Hank was well, having obtained only minor injuries, and soon he’d be back safe in the car and on the way home, where Connor could fuss and scold to his heart’s content until he felt like he was back on solid ground and not about to have the world yanked right out from under his feet.

(God, the moment they were alone Connor was going to _kick his ass._)

“I’m going to kick your ass, Lieutenant.” Connor informed Hank matter-of-factly the moment they were settled in the car and had pulled off the miserable back road and onto the freeway in the direction of home. His eyes cut to the quiet, subdued figure in the passenger seat for only a second before refocusing on the road. It would do them no good to have dodged a tragedy an hour ago, only to wind up in the ditch because Connor was distracted trying to count Hank’s steady, unwavering breaths and register the continued beating of his heart. 

“Yeah, I deserve that.” Hank allowed while assessing Connor’s profile, like he was being magnanimous in acknowledging his dumbassery. Honestly, that didn’t even bear responding to; Connor allowed the silence and his raised eyebrow to imply the ‘yeah, no shit’ that comment had earned. Huffing out an amused laugh, Hank turned away, leaning his head against the window, the cool glass streaked with rivulets of rainwater. “Anything I can do to make it up to you?” The older man grumbled, voice slightly muffled by the angle and his coat collar.

Connor let the rumble of Hanks baritone voice roll over him, as comforting as a warm blanket. He could dissect the sound, break it down into pure data; tone, pitch, vibration frequencies and grammatical structure but nothing in the rawness of information would ever be able to adequately describe why even a handful of words could make Connor tremble, make him vulnerable, cracking him open to Hank like an egg. “You could promise to be very, very good, at least for the rest of the night until I stop remembering what it looked like for you to have a gun pressed to your head.” Connor said lightly, almost flippantly. Connor didn’t say that he’d never forget; that short of deleting the memory, he couldn’t forget at all. Hank knew, just as he knew that this day would live forever, vivid and alive in Connor like no time had ever passed. Androids didn’t have the luxury of time blunting their recollections the way humans did, digital memory banks storing everything pristine and picture-perfect for the android’s entire lifetime. It was a truth that remained unacknowledged out loud, the confirmation unnecessary when they both understood the reality of the situation.

“I’m always good.” Hank offered instead, and old joke of theirs, worn thin with repetition and yet almost comforting in its familiarity.

Connor was unable to hold back a snort of amusement. “Sometimes you’re good. Mostly you’re a reckless moron who agrees to meet informants without backup or even bothering to do more than text me your half-cocked plan, meaning that when things go pear-shaped I’m forced to chase you halfway across the city to rescue you from peril.” Connor’s lip curled a bit, voice bitter with the anger and worry he could no longer suppress. “No Hank, you’re not good at all some days.”

“No, I’m not,” Hank acknowledged with honesty, “but you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you baby?” Hank’s wry affection curled around the words, warming the syllables in Connor’s ears. _Baby_, he loved that endearment, although he did his best to pretend otherwise. He couldn’t afford to make it too easy for Hank to be forgiven, after all. 

“I’ll tell you what I would do, though.” Connor allowed; hands slowly relaxing on the steering wheel, making the last turn onto their street. “If you’re very, very good, can take care of walking the dog while you get cleaned up and dried off. Then I promise to put you over my knee and make you sorry until you’ve apologized to my satisfaction, and maybe after that I’ll decide if you’ll have earned a hard fuck against the wall, just the way you like it. Thoughts?” Connor watched as his casually spoken filth found its target, observing, as he pulled into the driveway and parked, how the signs of arousal appeared on Hank’s weathered face; the flush, the dilated pupils, the increased rate of his pulse.

“Yeah, that uh. Sounds good.” Here Hank paused, swallowing heavily like his throat had gone dry. “I can be that good, I promise.” Hank’s desire was obvious, but so was his submission, his obedience. Connor loved him like this, eager, willing and open to Connor’s every little whim. Connor ushered him out of the car and into the house, happy to see the rain was letting up some. Just a quick spin around the block with Sumo, the poor patient animal, and he’d be back in time to keep his promises. He hooked the leash onto Sumo’s collar, scruffing his fingers behind the dog’s ears as he did so. Hank hovered, a bit awkwardly, waiting for further direction. Straightening slowly, Connor leaned in, deliberately, carefully, and placed a gentle kiss on Hank’s lips, the other man humming his approval at the small sweetness of the gesture. 

“Have a shower and warm up, alright?” Connor murmured against Hank’s plush mouth. “Then wait for me in the bedroom.” Hank stepped back and quirked a grin, just a playful tilt of the corner of his mouth. 

“Hurry back, now.” Hank teased with a wink as he shrugged his overcoat from his shoulders, strong, broad hands moving to undo the buttons on his shirt from top to bottom. “A guy could get up to all sorts of trouble if left unattended to long.” Connor barked out a laugh in response, feeling some of the earlier tension unspool inside his chest.

“You always do, I can’t take you anywhere!” Connor said, overcome with fondness for his foolish, lovely man. Still chuckling, he slipped outside, door clicking shut behind him, knowing that Hank would do as asked and be waiting. Flipping his collar up against his neck to keep out the last of the stubborn precipitation, Connor set out at a brisk pace, hoping to loop the block in less than ten minutes. He had a warm, soft, and lusty husband waiting for him back home, after all.

(Connor rubbed his thumb against the underside of his wedding ring, the simple gold band a negligible but significant weight on his finger. He knew how very lucky he was, both tonight and always.)

Three day later, Connor came home from running an errand to a kicked in door, a handful of bullet holes, and a pair of corpses spread across the living room carpet, in the place he’d once called home.


	2. Chapter 2

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Connor had never understood the meaning of the phrase “time lost all meaning” until now. Make no mistake, his chronometer was functioning just fine, in fact he could tell you down to the nanosecond how long it had been since he’d come home and found-

And found-

And found-

Well. (The thought stuck in his head like a skipping record, screaming at him from the darkest corner of his electronic brain in every silent moment to follow. _What did you find Connor? What did you find?)_

But what mattered the seconds? The hours? The _days?_ Every moment blurred together, the same muted agony, as if the whole world had lost colour suddenly, although Connor had checked and confirmed and checked again that his optics were in perfect function order. No, the error wasn’t systemic; the error was in him and in whatever part of his programming laid his deviancy, his synthetic soul. The dismal grey of the world, like a sepia filter over reality, persisted. Everything had taken on a surreal feel, like maybe it wasn’t true, like maybe it hadn’t happened at all and soon Connor could wake up, or break down another red wall in his programming and go home again.

The house (his home, his _home_) was a crime scene, boarded up and forgotten. He’d taken only what he could carry, stepping carefully around the crimson stain on the rug in the entry, where the pooled blood from Sumo’s last moments had settled. He’d tried so hard to not look at all over the couch; but he had and he already knew he’d never lose the sight of Hank, sprawled where he’d fallen over the low coffee table, the entry wound just right of his nose, the back half of his head gone, blood and bone and viscera sprayed across the room and the television screen, which had still been playing that shitty decades-old rerun. It was silent and dark now, like the rest of the house, as still and as unsettling as any mausoleum.

No, Connor had taken what he could; a handful of clothes, Hank’s old DPD hoodie, Sumo’s leash, Hanks’ bottle of cologne, a handful of photos of them, Cole, all his heartbroken memories and had then locked the door behind him. Let the detectives assigned to his case tromp all over what was left of his happiness and future, Connor would carry what was left of himself forward alone. (He swore to himself that he’d never look back.)

(_Liar._)

In the immediate aftermath of the shooting, Connor had responded on autopilot. He’d known the moment he’d arrived home something was amiss by the broken door; obviously kicked in, boot print livid on the painted finish. Even before entering and confirming visually, he’d already called ahead for an emergency response unit, having felt the sick swoop of terror, innards roiling with panic. Walking through the doorway was the hardest thing he’d ever done; harder than fighting his way out of the Zen Garden, harder than breaking through his code and deviating. He’d already known, in some small, sobbing part of him, that it was too late. That he could smell the blood in the air but there were no hopeful heartbeats to match. Indeed, their body heat on infrared was already fading; both Hank and Sumo lost to him by a margin of only about twenty minutes. If he’d taken a cab instead of transit, if he’d not lingered while speaking to North, if he’d left earlier in the day instead of letting Hank talk him into sticking around for lunch…

“Don’t think about the might-have-beens, you’ll go mad that way.” Captain Fowler told him, broad hand heavy on his shoulder at the funeral. “Remember that the assailants were prepared, they’d planned for this. If you’d been there you’d probably be dead too.” (And he was right, but Connor was already mad with it, mad with the loss and the maybes and the why’s _why why why oh god why_)

They asked him to give the eulogy, but how could he? What could he say about his husband that could make any of this feel real? Any of this ok? That could allow him to let go, to process, to move on, whatever he was meant to do now. (Move on, what a joke. _Where could he go, where his memories wouldn’t chase him?_) The future and all its bright promise was forever closed to him now, six feet under beside Cole with Sumo’s ashes tucked in beside him. If Connor had to breathe he’d choke, he’d die, lungs pressed close by the weight of the emptiness inside. Instead his perfectly tuned systems kept ticking, code kept running, processes and programs keeping him moving, functioning; a living death of a life, like sleepwalking through the motions of existing. The say that time healed all wounds but Connor had nothing but time and he was sure it only made things worse. Going back to work helped a little, although he was banned from any and all participation in the ongoing murder investigation, for obvious reasons. Connor was allowing that to abide for now, if only because he felt as fragile as fucking glass and opening those evidence files would only shatter him further. No, he carefully closed that door in his mind, tucking away the memories and the horror and the rage and locking it metaphorically behind him as surely as he’d locked the door to the home he’d lost on Michigan Ave.

If only the locked door could stop the ghosts.

The first time he’d allowed himself to disengage long enough to rest, in the aftermath; he’d procured a hotel room. Fowler wasn’t sure if the perps would be coming after him next; it wasn’t exactly a secret that Hank and Connor were a packaged deal. The hotel was in a decent neighbourhood and came with an assigned twenty four hour surveillance staked out in the parking lot, just in case. Connor had tried to decline, but Fowler had insisted. Slowly though the surveillance had ended when it became apparent as the days passed that there would be no retaliation. Whether they assumed Connor wasn’t a threat, or more likely believed that he’d been warned off of their trail, the organized crime ring they’d been pursuing in the first place seemed to have lost interest in all things Anderson, now that two-thirds of the family was cold in the grave. It gave Connor little comfort; at least another murder attempt would have been an opportunity for justice, or catharsis, or even just the peace of death. (Connor didn’t want to die, but he’d take it if he could, in the timid, reckless hope that Androids and people shared the same afterlife.) As is, Connor knew he’d never sleep again. Go through the motions, yes. Dress for bed, climb in on his side, ignore the empty space beside him (_oh, what soft agony that was_) and lay still. In the times before he was alone, Connor had used these hours to slip into stasis, to run diagnostics, to rest in the best possible way he could beside his husband while he slept and dreamed, sleep-warm and softly breathing and so alive in Connor’s arms. Now though, that was lost to him forever. Connor could lay there, could run his defrags and upgrades and stare sightlessly at the ceiling in silence all night, eyes open and body flat; no reaching for a lover that would never be there again, no eyes closed in mimicry of slumber. Denied even the comfort of Sumo’s unconditional affection, there could be no peace, no _rest_. No, Connor would never sleep again.

(Without Hank beside him, how could he?)

That first night, he settled in more out of habit than anything. Lying there in the near-silence, the distant hum of electricity in the wires, the rumble in the distance from the cars on the street, and the murmur of gentle voices from other rooms, Connor had supposed he was imagining it. Maybe he’d played the memories too often, looped them too many times in his grief and imprinted the sound in his circuits, like wearing a groove in a carpet by walking the same path repeatedly overtime. (Don’t think of the wear and tear back at the house, don’t think about its understated lived-in splendor, don’t think about the home you’ll never have again) But no, as he focuses, he realizes he’s actually hearing breathing in real time. His audio sensors pinpoint the noise at the foot of the bed, striking chords of familiarity as he recalled many dozens of nights with Sumo curling up on the massive dog pillow they’d spent far too much money on at the foot of their bed, grumbling to himself as he settled in for sleep. The sounds were identical, painfully real and for a moment Connor found himself continuing to rationalize, to downplay, to blame his somehow-faulty senses for what was surely a whimsy, the product of his deep sadness. After all, as unreal as he found the thought, there was in fact no conceivable way he’d ever have the experience of being joined for bedtime again. He could only make logical excuses for a few more seconds however, until suddenly the bed to his left sagged, shifted, springs creaking and sheets rustling.

Connor was out of bed and against the wall in a moment, the heavy bedside lamp clutched in both hands as both impromptu weapon and light source, although his night vision was excellent regardless. The clicking of the switch was sharp in the sudden quiet, the yellow glow spilling across the bed and floor, casting the room in alternating butter-warm light and stark black shadows, the glow off Connor’s wedding ring casting tiny bright fractals against the walls and ceiling. As predicted, there was no family pet at the end of the bed. Nor was there a person on the opposite side of the mattress from him, on the side where Hank had always lain in their marriage bed. The unused pillow had no imprint of a tired head, and the sheets were undisturbed other than what Connor himself had caused by first tucking himself in and then leaping back out. In fact, there was no discernible physical evidence of the unsettling experience he’d just had only a moment before. He knew what he’d felt though; the feeling of his husband sliding into bed beside him, the way he had every night since their courtship had begun, was as unforgettable as the pattern of his own face in the mirror. 

Androids don’t have adrenaline, they don’t experience the physiological side-effects of panic in the same way that humans did. If they experienced any physical or psychological aftereffects in the wake of a sudden fright, it was a programming error; overwhelmed processors struggling under the onslaught of the unexpected influx and then withdrawal of multiple conflicting commands. Connor was a cutting-edge prototype, still to this day the most advanced model that Cyberlife had ever built. His hands never trembled, he never went into shock, and he was able to remain stable and calm under even the most extreme emotional duress. He’d been built for hostage negotiation and high-stress police work after all. So his hands were rock steady as he replaced the lamp and carefully straightened the sheets, tucking in the edges to mimic the way the hotel staff had done when turning the room. The sensitive tips on his fingers of course registered the temperature anomaly as he ran his hand across the width of the bed to smooth the wrinkles; his side of the bed was warmed to what he expected it to be based on his average running temperature and the amount of time he’d reclined there in a facsimile of sleep; the other side however was much colder than the ambient temperature of the room, like it had been brushed with ice. Connor did not flinch though, did not pause, and merely finished remaking the bed before running a jaundiced eye over the room one last time. The window was closed and latched, bathroom door open to show the empty room beyond, and the door to the hall was locked and the chain pulled across. There were no heartbeats, no breathing, no sounds in the room except the muted hum of his own systems and the whisper of air from the vents, and no sign of any unexpected guests to explain what he’d just experienced.

Stepping back around the bed, Connor moved to the window, gazing out at the city glow, brilliant in the dark overcast night. It looked like more rain judging by the heavy cloud cover obscuring the stars, and a quick search for the weather report backed it up. He passed the rest of the night that way, watching the world outside by the hotel window as the rain gathered and eventually fell; water staining the asphalt darker than black and slicking the view from the window into a watery blur, giving halos to streetlights and neon signs beyond the glass. The whole time, Connor made sure to keep his body angled to watch not just the street and its random passers-by, but the room also. 

All night, nothing else stirred in the dark space, not even Connor himself. The heavy stillness pressed in on him, relentless with all the weight of a sick, hot anticipation until the rising sun broke the spell and cast its first weak rays, illuminating the truth of Connor’s solitude. (Somehow, his rushing thirium refused to be soothed even in the thin, watery light of a new dawn.)


	3. Chapter 3

“Ghosts are the manifestation of the longing of loss.”   
― Stewart Stafford

Markus had helped find Connor an apartment in an Android-only building. Years out and they were still hammering out new legislature, still fighting to be seen as equal, still looking for more cohesive integration into the existing social structure. Buildings like this had become more common in the meantime; segregated apartment buildings that were often converted offices. Androids had no real need of kitchens, and only occasionally needed bathrooms if they were inclined to showers, so small, cheap one-room apartments had become the standard.

Connor’s was one of the larger ones by request; what could have been rather generously called a bachelor style in any other circumstance. One large room save for a narrow storage closet, the place was Spartan at best. The main space came complete with a pair of small cabinets, a mini fridge and sink that dared call itself a kitchenette and was meant for those androids that might have entertained human guests. Connor had no guests, and no desire for any, but old habits die hard and he’d liked the look of the worn melamine-faced doors, almost like a slice of normality after the insanity his life had become. Despite the initial comfort of the idea, he quickly found that the empty cupboards mocked him, with no well-worn dishes stacked inside with care. There were no leftovers in the fridge, no washcloth left to drip into the sink. No dog bowl in the corner, no geriatric coffee maker bubbling away on the counter. There was no bathroom and therefore no toiletries lining the edge of the tub and the bathroom sink, no ugly bathmat or patterned shower curtain to good-naturedly argue over. The main space was even more cavernously empty despite its tiny size; barely large enough to hold the full size mattress Conner has dragged in, sitting on a box spring with no frame shoved into the far corner with an old produce crate turned over as a bedside table. There was no television, no couch, no chairs or table. Just the bed, the bedside table, the sad countertops with their chipped Formica, and the shabby rack that held Connor’s four changes of clothes, bought as a liquidated fixture on discount from a closing department store.

Once a week, Connor takes his meager laundry to the nearest laundromat and wastes 2 hours and ten bucks to watch his single load of clothes and sheets tumble in first the washer then the dryer. He keeps a broom in the corner to sweep the floors daily and washes them on his hands and knees once a month, because he doesn’t want the trouble of storing a mop and bucket and he doesn’t make much mess anyways. The mini fridge keeps a couple packs of thirium, just in case. Connor can cross the whole space in half a dozen strides. The only window looks out onto the brick face of the apartments next door. Connor had tacked up a sheet over the window as an acting curtain and promptly forgot the window existed. The sunlight through the old gray sheet gave the entire room a washed out, faded look even at the brightest parts of the day. Connor didn’t mind the dimness; in fact he never even bothered with the overhead lights. Why would he, when his eyes could see almost as well in the dark as in the day? Every day Connor climbed out of bed, dressed, left for work, returned, and eventually dressed for bed and lay unmoving in silence for about six hours letting a defrag or an update run in the background.

He also hallucinated vividly.

(or at least he thought he did)

As a prototype, Connor was capable of seeing in a colour spectrum humans couldn’t perceive, including infrared and night vision. His ears could hear the sound of a mouse crawling in the walls if he wanted to. The sensors on his fingers could feel the minutest changes in the texture of an object if needed, and that didn’t even factor into account the entire portable chem lab that lived in his mouth. No, Connor was far superior to all other androids when it came to bleeding edge tech. Therefore, it troubled him all the more for not being able to sort out the cause behind his… little lapses in reality.

“Can’t ignore me forever Connor. I’m not going anywhere.” Connor didn’t need to turn his head from where he stood facing the wall, meticulously buttoned his shirt for a new day. He knew what he’d see if he turned.

Nothing. Nothing at all but his bland, lonely apartment. But out of the corner of his eye the tall, broad shadow would hover, the familiar silhouette catches at the edges of his vision but never there when he looked head-on, always frustratingly and maddeningly drifting just beyond his line of sight. Connor had run scan after scan, recalibrated all his optical sensors, even had Josh take a look for good measure, but all parts of his anatomy were currently in optimal working order, at least according to all known metrics. That didn’t stop him from seeing his husband a thousand times a day, one millisecond-long glimpse at a time, hazy and surreal every time he turned his head. It didn’t stop him from hearing his voice, once or twice a day at most, the husky baritone still as compelling as it had been in life. The voice always sent a jolt to his circuits, something like what Connor imagined a human would describe as ‘the hair on the back of his neck standing up.’ He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d always loved and very much missed Hank’s voice, or because he wasn’t hearing it with his ears so much as he felt it reverberating in his chassis. All day Hank lurked on the fringe of his perception, hovering at Connors shoulder at his desk, and crimes scenes, in the cab to the precinct and home again. Not a day had gone by since the first encounter at the motel that Connor had known the peace of being truly alone, although he was always, always lonely. Daylight was one thing, but nighttime was even worse, when the revenant slid into bed beside him. Invisible and intangible but Connor could feel the prickle of his heat, smell the scent of his skin, could perceive the shape of him on the empty space to his left, right up until he turned his head and then the proof faded, like the smear of a wave on the sand and Connor was alone in the bed once more, distraught. 

Connor had compiled his data logs one night while he lay in the dark and ‘rested;’ none of the visual or auditory phenomena he was experiencing ever appeared in his logs. Connor didn’t know what was worse, the thought that he was experiencing the kind of glitch that was so far undetectable, or that thought that maybe he’d just gone stark raving mad. What was more horrifying, he wondered one night lying in the electric, terrifying dark trying to ignore the phantom weight beside him; being haunted by the ghost of his dead husband, or in his unbearable grief finding a way to haunt himself?

(Connor was afraid of glitching beyond repair. He didn’t know if constructs like him had an afterlife assigned to him, and he preferred to hold on to the fantasy of seeing his husband again sometime. At least if he was losing his mind, he wasn’t alone.)

“You alright there Connor?” Connor blinked out of his thoughts and back into the present, looking up to meet Officer Miller’s concerned gaze.

“I’m just fine, Chris, why do you ask?”

“Man, you’ve been jumpier than a cat recently. You keep twitching, and zoning out… you sure you’re ok? Everything in good repair? That’s not impolite to ask, is it?” Chris shuffled from foot to foot in the awkward dance of a human uncomfortable with the conversation but committed to finishing it. It was very endearing and Connor felt a rush of affection for his new partner. Opening the break room fridge to pass the cream to Chris for his morning coffee Connor, shrugged as he replied, studiously ignored the blur that was Hank’s specter lurking to his left.

“I’ve run diagnostics and been looked over by a professional. As far as we can tell I’ve just had a hell of a year.” The comment was a natural statement delivered in his best sardonic tone. If there was one thing Connor had learned it was that cops didn’t appreciate having things sugar-coated and they all had a slightly morbid sense of humour. As expected Chris snorted.

“Yeah, I’ll say dude. If you need anything, you let me know ok? No heroes in this partnership ok?” Connor allowed his smile to stretch from the sarcastic to the genuine.

“Yes, I know. Thank you, it means a lot.”

Over Chris’ shoulder, the staticky form of Hank solidified for one fleeting, heart-stopping second. Connor felt all his processors pause for that one infinitesimal moment, caught by Hank’s penetrating blue stare for what felt like a long, protracted eternity. Hanks face was carved from granite; smooth, unreadable but as perfect as he was in Connor’s unfailing memory. His eyes were like cold fire, so bright and vivid that Connor wondered dizzily for a moment if he blinked, would he see a pair of twin sunspots against the back of his eyelids like a human might? Almost as quick as it happened however, Hank flickered out, fading like a flash of light off of a passing vehicle. It mustn’t have taken very long at all, because Chris didn’t appear to notice the lapse in attention, nor had he registered any change on Connor’s expression or body language. He also did not appear notice when Connor stayed the slightest bit closer than usual all day, going as far as accepting a ride home, which he rarely did. The company helped; driving back some of the unease that had been creeping up Connor’s metaphorical spine since the vision in the DPD break room that morning.

Watching Chris drive off however brought the feeling of discomfort back, like a sluggish crawl under his skin that he just couldn’t shake. Every lengthening twilight shadow seemed to seethe with possibility; ripe with expectation. Connor felt twitchy and a little shaky, and quickly backtracked down the block to the bus stop. He rode for hours in circles, transferring twice when the bus he was on went out of service. Outside of the four encroaching walls of his apartment and surrounded by the handful of late night transit-goers, Connor felt the panic dip if not entirely abate. It was hard to draw his usual calm demeanor like a suit of armour when he could feel his dead husband’s eyes burning like a brand into the artificial skin on the back of his neck. 

It was also hard to tell if the agonizingly familiar weight and warmth of a nonexistent Sumo laying across his feet the entire time he spent sitting made things better, or worse. 

(Connor comes to work the next morning wearing yesterday’s clothes. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he doesn’t need to sleep so there are no tell-tale bags, but Chris knows a problem when he sees one. Not much he can do at this point other than wait and see, but damn if it isn’t the saddest fucking thing on the planet. Kid had been through enough, the universe should give him a break at least. Chris shivers as he follows Connor out to the car on their way to yet another fresh crime scene. Is it just him, or was there a draft suddenly making his skin prickle? What was it his mother had always said about getting the goosebumps; that someone was walking over your grave? Rolling his eyes a bit at himself, Chris zips his jacket up tighter. It was just a dumb superstition, after all.)

Three days later, on the anniversary of Hank’s death, Connor bring flowers to his grave. Standing in front of the plain impersonal stone, Connor finds that tears won’t come, even though his heart and wedding ring alike both feel like anchors trying to drag him to his knees. For a moment he wishes to lie down and stay; riding out the rest of his life until his inevitable shutdown on this one small patch of grass. It’s only for a moment, but the feeling of immense, overwhelming desire to surrender frightens him so much that he spins on his heel to leave immediately, only barely remembering to leave the flower he’d brought for Cole, too. 

When he comes home at dusk, Hank is sitting on the edge of the bed, admiring the picture of the two of them on their wedding day in its cheap frame where it sits on the bedside crate. Connor freezes as his thirium turns to ice and the door clicks shut behind him. Hank looks as vivid and real as he had in life, like Connor could reach out and touch him; could climb into his arms again and pretend that nothing had ever happened. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

Connor hits his knees, hand over his mouth, shock stealing the strength from his limbs. His vision wavers, watery with the tears in his eyes. Hank stands silently, his footsteps making no noise as he takes the three steps to close the distance between them. When he crouches, reaching one broad, calloused palm out to cup Connor’s cheek, the android snaps his eyes shut, both terrified and trembling with want. The moment stretches taffy-long, infinite, the seconds turning into minutes, but no gentle, warm touch comes. Connor knows if he opens his eyes, Hank will be gone, and he’ll be alone in a shitty apartment in a shitty neighbourhood, flayed raw and howling inside with grief.

Connor sits all night until his internal chronometer nudges him with a reminder to get ready for work. Never once does he open his eyes. At least this way, he can pretend for as long as he can that Hank is right there in front of him, just waiting to embrace him again, and not somewhere beyond his reach where Connor can never follow.


	4. Chapter 4

“So much time spent believing we had ghosts in our machines has accustomed us to haunting  
ourselves.”   
― D.J. MacLennan

The next day, Fowler pulls Connor into his office, letting him know that the case had gone cold enough that they were officially closing the investigation into Hank’s murder. Connor can tell that it’s hard for the Captain too; he and Hank had been friends, and his platitudes while useless are at least sincere. Connor thanks him, asks to leave a bit early that day, and Fowler lets him go, pity in his eyes. Connor hates it, doesn’t feel he needs it, not when all he needs is justice; to put the ghost of his husband to bed at last. (To a bed that isn’t his own, he means.) He doesn’t go home that evening, unable to bear either the emptiness or to prospect of lying down with the dead for another night. Instead he visits North, who takes one look at him and drags him into helping her with some paperwork for hours and instead leaves him to seethe inside without pushing. He loves her a little bit for that; she is always a good friend when he needs one. He leaves in the morning feeling scrubbed raw and ground down to the bone, his determination crystalized.

The day after that, fueled by a rush of some bright madness that he can’t quite define or name, Connor hacks into the DPD’s archival database.

Well, ‘hacks’ is a strong word; it was more a case of accessing the files in question and then covering his tracks after so no one else knew where his digital presence had been. As a detective he has, and always had, full access to any and all case files. Up until now it was protocol and professional courtesy (and a metric fuckton of grief and the sheer reality of _not wanting to know_) that had kept him out of Hank’s murder file. He’d not been permitted to participate in any investigation due to conflict of interest, and until this moment he’d been… not ok with it, but he’d made his peace. It was better than having to wade through the hollow, clinical police reports from the scene, and later follow up interviews that had initially gone nowhere (and eventually gone cold entirely, relegating the whole file and Connor’s husband in general to the unsolved cases archive, a headline on the evening news and a footnote in the DPD’s history.) As much as Connor had wanted justice initially, it had hurt too much to tear the barely-healing scab off the wound. He’d trusted his collogues to do in his stead what he couldn’t. 

But he had trusted them and they had failed, and the case and gone cold and was now being closed. In fact it had probably only remained open this long with no progress as a courtesy to a dead cop and to Connor himself as next of kin. What was Connor to do, tell Hanks’ ghost he was sorry that he’d never be vindicated with his murderer behind bars? If Hank wasn’t resting, was still standing at Connor’s shoulder in death as he had in life, then how could Connor ever be content to continue to sit in his quiet, numb complacency? 

Being caught snooping around Hank’s murder files would be grounds for immediate dismissal, Connor knew. The fear of losing his job, and consequently one of the last things in his life that meant anything to him, had definitely contributed in no small way to his reticence in opening this particular can of worms earlier. However, enough time had passed since the murder that Connor now had plausible deniability on his side. He knew that anyone who’d suspect him of interfering with the investigation would have long since assumed that he was disinterested, or resigned. It had been a year; by all accounts he was grieving and moving on, there was no reason to assume he’d out of the blue start sniffing around where he didn’t belong. Keeping that logic in mind to steady his nerves, it wasn’t hard to find a few quiet moments to access the archives. It takes a long, breathless moment; standing alone and vulnerable in the evidence room feeling as raw as an exposed nerve, but soon Connor has successfully downloaded all the relevant details to his internal drives in their entirety and then deleted all traces of himself from the system.

Connor is a prototype; more than that he’d been designed as a learning system, intended to continue growing and expanding upon his original capabilities and programming based on outside influence and environmental factors. As a deviant, he’s discovered through both his personal curiosity and his police work that there isn’t a firewall or a security system he’d met yet that is capable of keeping him out for long once he’s set his mind to cracking it. As familiar as he is with the DPD systems, it’s almost too simple to erase his digital fingerprint from anything incriminating. Anyone accessing the user logs will simply see him reviewing his current case files and updating a report on a recently closed case. Nothing out of the ordinary in a day’s work, and certainly nothing that would arouse suspicion, even if he felt unreasonably unsteady, as if shaky from adrenaline or fear. Hanks shadow hovering at the corner of his vision; as sad and tragic a haunting as he’d been every day since his first appearance, both heightened and soothed Connor’s anxiety. Having that penetrating, unwavering gaze on the back of his neck ceaselessly made Connor feel tense, almost hypervigilant and ready to jump at shadows. But it was Hank; even if he was only an unquiet ghost, or possibly only existed as a figment of Connor’s grief-driven paranoia, Hank’s presence had always been a comfort.

The rest of the day passes almost as if in a dream, or at least what Connor assumes a dream would feel like. He feels a bit hazy, a bit muzzy, definitely distracted, luckily he processes so fast it’s mostly unnoticeable to the humans around him. Chris seems a bit concerned, but Chris has been displaying very obvious signs of worry off and on since Connor had returned to work after the funeral and they’d been assigned as partners. Connor knew it was the conflict between Chris’s soft heart and his professional pride that kept him waffling on the edge or reaching out to Connor properly. On one hand, Chris cared a lot about pretty much everybody alive; he was definitely someone who’d joined the force in order to help people. On the other hand, he was newly promoted to detective after a long, hard slog toward recognition, and Connor had seniority. While Chris didn’t and never had appeared to hold any animosity over Connor’s android status, he still held himself back in ways he probably wouldn’t with a human partner, if only because a human was a more known quantity. Even over half a decade after the November rebellion that won android person status, there was still a lot of eggshell-walking from both sides as humans and deviant android figured out the minutiae of sharing their world. Connor didn’t hold it against Chris; he was always unfailingly polite and never less than cordial but it definitely put a bit of a damper on any deeper friendship from evolving.

Which, considering Connor’s current not-so-guilty conscience and the forbidden files that felt like they were burning a hole in his long-term storage banks, was probably for the best. The last thing Connor wanted to do was to lie to his partner any more than he had to. With any luck, if he was ever questioned he’d be able to fake ignorance enough to convincingly avow all knowledge of whatever the consequences would be.

(RA9 help him, there would be consequences.)

Over the next few days, Connor reviews the files in depth, sitting cross-legged on his sad mattress, ignoring the dark figure pacing and muttering at the edge of his perception. His digs through interview notes, evidence collected and tagged, the investigating officer’s thoughts and impressions, all of it; imprinting every detail into his very circuitry. He stirs each morning cheeks wet with thirium tears, the beautiful agony of his husband’s last moment’s writ large in his memory banks. 

There almost nothing. The detectives involved had done well; they’d left no stone unturned and no lead unfollowed. It wasn’t their fault that nobody wanted to talk; mob connections made people nervous, and Connor couldn’t fault anyone that didn’t want to risk the lives of themselves or their own families even if it meant helping to get a murderer off the streets. Still, their very justifiable paranoia certainly didn’t make his self-assigned job any easier. Being limited to the case files was both frustrating and infuriating; having to depend on someone else’s very human perception and evidence collection usually didn’t bother Connor but his emotional involvement was definitely shortening his usually legendary patience. The only discrepancy he could find that might be some kind of clue or lead was what looked like a note regarding a follow-up interview with a suspect from detective Reed of all people. The note appeared abrupt, like it was redacted or censored. It was almost nothing worth noting at all, more of a gut feeling or a cop’s finely-honed instinct, but it had niggled at Connor long enough that he’d latched on. It was worth chasing down, even if it meant talking to Reed.

“The Pearson interview? Yeah I remember that prick. Guilty as fuck if you ask me, but of course he had a good enough alibi and I had no proof. What you gonna do, can’t just bust heads in till you get what you want, even when it’s one of our own in the morgue.” Connor blinked, when he’d corner Detective Reed in the parking garage after shift and asked about the abbreviated note, he hadn’t expected a direct answer. To be honest, he’d expected a lot of rudeness and bluster; despite the passage of time their working relationship had never really improved, owing mostly to Reed’s continued anti-android sentiments. While anti-hate laws had improved to the point that Reed was forced to keep him mouth shut on the job, it was an open secret that you didn’t give any case involving androids to Detective Reed if you wanted it given due diligence. Connor had long felt that a man that couldn’t do his job without being hampered by his massive prejudice didn’t deserve the job in the first place, but Connor wasn’t the boss and so Reed remained, sullen and casually vicious whenever their paths were forced to cross. Connor’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Reed’s scowl twisted deeper as he fished a battered clunky vape from his jacket pocket. “Look, I fucking hate you android dicks, that’s not a damn secret. But just you know what I hate more?” Reed paused, whether for effect of if he just couldn’t stand to wait another moment before taking a deep drag from the vape and exhaling a plume of vapour into Connor’s face. Mango flavoured, Connor’s olfactory sensors alerted him. “I fucking hate cop killers. I won’t say nothing if you’re digging around, just do me a favour ok? If you catch up with him, you put that fucker down before he comes for the next Uniform.” Connor nodded crisply, not bothering the thank Reed for the info. The detective wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, Connor removed himself immediately from the other man’s space, knowing it was the best thanks he could offer. The sweet smell of mango might have followed him almost all the way to the bus stop up the street, but the thoughts spinning in his head followed him all the way home.

When he was tucked in and joined in bed by Hank’s ghost the night, he didn’t give in to the urge to turn his head as he had in the past. He ignored the dip in temperature that always accompanied these nightly visits and the sound of a jangling dog collar from the foot of the bed. No, he stared straight at the ceiling, not moving, not blinking, until eventually the presence faded and it was time to rise again. 


	5. Chapter 5

“It was haunted; but real hauntings have nothing to do with ghosts finally; they have to do with the menace of memory.”   
― Anne Rice, The Queen of the Damned

Tracking down Pearson was simpler than it should have been. He’d moved since the last interview with Reed, but he’d still been working the same shitty bartending job, and had submitted his new address for tax purposes. Digging into his financials showed some large, anonymous deposits around the time of Hank’s murder, as well as uncovering what looked like a moderate-to-severe gambling problem. Andrew Adam Pearson, age 43, was ex-military, dishonorably discharged over fifteen years ago. Pearson’s service records were telling; Pearson had been a mediocre soldier; good aim, good physical performance, bad attitude, problems with authority. Likely, he’d fallen out of the military and into bad gambling debts, and fallen in with the mob was a way to pay the bills. Whether he had owed the mob money and they’d hooked him into service or he’d gone mercenary to the mafia for the paycheque didn’t matter, he was looking more and more like Connor’s culprit. His picture showed him to be Caucasian with a square jaw, close-set blue eyes and dark hair, maybe handsome once but now painted sour with his bitterness. He looked like a thousand other men just like him; disenfranchised and pissed off at the world for not owing him anything. 

It took further digging discretely over the course of the next few weeks, combing through CCTV and auto cab records, but Connor was eventually able to trace Pearson’s movement the day of the shooting. From home to the ammo store where he paid cash, to the park where Connor figured he’d picked up the unregistered gun from a dead drop, to the house on Michigan Ave. Back home again after, via a different route. Whether he’d disposed of the gun at some point or held on to it remained a mystery; since ballistics hadn’t tied it to any other bodies in the last year Connor might never know. It didn’t matter in the end. In fact, it was almost better if the gun was gone. If it was never found, never tied to Pearson, then if something… unfortunate happened to the man, it was unlikely he’d ever be tied back to Hanks murder, and ultimately to Connor.

The funny thing was that Connor had tried to rationalize, to lie to himself, to justify his actions as justice and not cold-blooded revenge, but as he dressed in dark colours, neutral and with no discernable logos or identifying marks, with a ball cap pulled down to hide his LED and a change of clothes in a nondescript black backpack, he knew that he had every intention of making sure that only one of them would be leaving this encounter alive. Setting out after midnight and stealthily avoiding crossing paths with any of his neighbours, Connor opted to walk to avoid leaving any records of his adventure. While he could easily change the auto cab or transit records in question, it was better to avoid having to do any more covering up than he had to. Better to save it if he needed to make a quick or discrete getaway after. Besides, the bar Pearson was working the closing shift at tonight was only a forty-five minute walk.

Connor built and discarded a dozen scenarios in his head for what was going to happen when he arrived. Everything from the dramatic to the anticlimactic played out in his head like a low-budget action-thriller. Connor’s stomach surged as he arrived, and slipped in the back door off the alley, left propped open probably for the smokers and drug users. He entered the building just beyond the bathroom doors, and further down the hall he could see a glimpse of the main room, where all the chair were up on the tables and the floors still glinted wetly form being mopped. The music was cut, and the lights were down, and the place appeared mostly deserted. He watched, huddling the darkness of the hall as the lone waitress finished wiping down the counter, collecting her purse and jacket and hollering a casual goodbye over her shoulder as she made her way out the front door, locking up behind herself.

From the kitchen, Connor could still hear the sounds of someone else moving and working, a male voice humming tunelessly as they went. The kitchen door was further down the hallway, past the bathroom but just before the entrance to the bar area proper. Slipping the backpack from his shoulder and leaving it tucked into the corner at the dead end of the hallway, Connor crept down toward the dimply lit bar, back to the wall, the switchblade knife he’d purchased just for this moment clutched in his fist. Connor couldn’t help but flashback to that rainy night so long ago when he’d rescued Hank from the first attempt on his life in an empty warehouse. Now, his purpose was much darker, although he was no less determined. He peered into the window on the kitchen door, looking for his target, and frowning when he realized that the kitchen looked to be empty. Maybe Pearson was in the walk-in cooler? He spotted the secondary kitchen door on the opposite side of the room just as he registered movement in his peripheral. It took him a moment too long to respond; so used to Hank’s spectral comings and goings that he took almost didn’t register that the body coming at him was the wrong size and shape to be Hank, and was also making too much noise. Connor spun and brought his knife to bear just in time to take a baseball bat to the shoulder. His plasteel frame was solid and meant to take damage so it didn’t crack under the vicious assault, but his did lose momentary control of the limb, dropping the knife as the signals in the arm were temporary disrupted. Cursing under the breath he flung a hand up to try catch the bat as it came down again. Pearson’s eyes were wild, his mouth a wet snarl, yanking the bat out of Connor’s hasty, inadequate hold and reversing direction.

“Saw you on the camera sneaking around, you fucker,” Pearson hissed, his voice not as deep as Connor had imagined it would be, “the fuck you want from me, huh?” Another wild swing that Connor ducked, quickly running and discarding preconstructions. Connor wasn’t short, but Pearson had a height, reach, and weight advantage, and now that he’d backed Connor a ways down the hall away from the fallen knife, he was also the only one who was armed.

Without being able to get passed Pearson and make for the wide open space of the bar area, and unwilling to take the fight into the alley where it could be witnessed, Connor ducked into the ladies room out of desperation, hoping for a bit more space than the narrow hallway could offer. Illuminated by the glaring motion-sensor lights, Pearson looks like a madman, feral and howling with rage. Following hot on his heels, Pearson charge into the room, bellowing out a curse as Connor flung a stall door open between them. Caught off guard, the man stumbled, and Connor was on him in an instant, tearing that bat out of his hands. While he managed to disarm the other man, the struggle had Connor fumbling and the bat dropped to the floor with a crack like a gunshot against the tile, rolling with the force to the far corner of the room. Connor would have gone for it, but Pearson had him by the collar of his shirt, one meaty first driving into Connor’s jaw, and sending spikes of damage warnings up across his HUD. Connor recovered swiftly, immune to pain like all androids, and like humans weren’t. Pearson cursed, shaking out a hand that might have been broken. Using the distraction to his advantage, Connor grappled Pearson, driving a fist into his stomach and relishing the choked noises he made as he lost his breath. With a shove, Pearson had stumbled back, falling ass-first to the dirty floor and backwards, cracking his head into the tile wall hard enough to stun him, a smear of blood glaring red under the harsh fluorescents.

Pearson groaned, tried to push himself up, and hissed when his damaged hand refused to bear his weight. Connor stepped carefully around him, bending to pick up the fallen bat, without taking his eyes off the man on the ground. Pearson had gotten the drop on him once; he’d never get the drop on him (or anyone else) ever again. 

“Who the fuck even are you.” Pearson spat, trying to make eye contact but staring a few inches to the left. Connor could see his pupils were unevenly dilated and knew that the concussed man was possibly seeing double. Good, it made it easier. 

“Hank Anderson.”

Pearson blinked, slow and sluggish. “Who…”

“Hank Anderson. A cop. My husband.” It took a long, agonizing moment for the name to land and make an impression, but Connor saw the dim light of recognition in Pearson’s eyes as he raised the bat to the man still prone on the ground. Dazed, Pearson tried to dodge, but injured as he was and in a confined space it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Connor swung until there was nothing left; until both arms raised to defend his face broke and fell away, until the smug fuckers head disappeared into mulch, until he finally felt like it was enough. Connor’s body heaved, sucking in breaths he didn’t need, hands so tight on the bat it was sending warning signals to his racing processors. All around him, the previously mint green tile was speckled red in all directions and straight up to the ceiling. Connor’s internal analysis programs were already remarking on the angle of blood-splatter and cast off patterns. Dropping the bat, Connor prodded the body with a toe for good measure. No heartbeat, no breathing, no discernable head. Connor’s hands trembled finely, but he ignored it, forcing himself to drop the bat to the floor and determinedly not flinching at the crack of aluminum on tile, nor the clatter as it rolled under the stall door only to clink to a stop against the porcelain of the toilet. Stepping around the body to the sink, he made to clean himself up when he looked into the mirror and realized that he was looking straight into Hank’s well-worn face. Gasping in surprise, Connor whipped around, but there was no one except the corpse behind him. Turning back, he was surprised to find Hank still there, looking at him steadily, evenly. After a long, tense moment, Hank nodded once; just a dip of his chin, their eyes never losing contact. A moment later he was gone like he’d never been there, and only Connor’s own blood-painted face stared back at him.

Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d drawn and didn’t even need, Connor finished washing up. He collected his knife and took a few minutes to comb the hallway for any evidence of his presence, grateful that androids didn’t leave finger prints and knowing that the investigating officers would likely assume the perp had worn gloves. It was also to Connor’s advantage that the bar and its back hallway were well-worn and well-travelled and not so well cleaned, meaning that any detective would be hard-pressed to sort out anything distinct enough to implicate Connor. Once he was satisfied that he’d missed nothing, Connor ducked into the kitchen, stripping down and stuffing his bloodied clothes into a stolen garbage bag, then the garbage bag went into his backpack and he re-dressed in the fresh clothes he’d been carrying in his backpack. He spent a tense moment hacking into the bar camera’s and security system to make sure there wasn’t any evidence to be gathered from the footage. It was the work of a moment to wipe the records for the last week, making it look like some random virus had scrambled the whole program long in advance. Anyone looking for an android perp would be suspicious, but it was still far more likely they’d assume a human suspect. While the earlier onset of deviancy had caused some abused androids to commit acts of violence out of fear and confusion, fully deviant androids had the lowest rates of violent crimes committed of any statistical group in Detroit.

Confident that the numbers and his own thoroughness were on his side, Connor left the bar the same way he’d come, jacket hood up ostensibly to ward of the cold but mostly to help obscure his face. Walking in the wrong direction for about ten blocks, he finally stashed the ruined outfit in a dumpster far enough away from the bar to be outside the standard police search radius. While burning it would have been more effective, it would have drawn more attention than he was willing to risk. No, with no witnesses and no reason to look this far, it was highly unlikely that the outfit would ever be found. Even if it was, and was tied to the murder in the bar, Connor had no biological material to tie him to the clothing. The most that could be determined was that the suspect was in fact and android, and while that might nudge Connor onto the suspect list, it wouldn’t be hard to throw suspicion off, and they couldn’t make it far on evidence that was only circumstantial anyways. 

After disposing of the bag, Connor donned his now-empty backpack and took the long, scenic route home, just in case he was caught on any CCTV cameras. Three hours after he’d first left, he was back home to finish scrubbing up in his tiny kitchen sink. He bleached the entire kitchen, and then the rest of the apartment after, both to be safe and also to avoid having to lie down and face what he’d done in the dark and silence. If he felt ghostly blue eyes on him all night as he worked, well, he was getting used to that now wasn’t he?

(Was he angry? Connor couldn’t tell if Hank was angry. _What would he do if Hank was angry?_)

The next morning Connor walked into work as punctual and polite as ever, and no one was the wiser. When the call came about the body in the bar, Detective Reed was assigned the case, and he didn’t even glance Connor’s way when he left.

For two days Connor held his metaphorical breath, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be called into an interrogation room with a caustic Reed and a disappointed Fowler on the other side of the table. For two days he tiptoed around in a placid state of panic, until on the second day he left the precinct to head home, and Reed fell into step beside him as he crossed the parking garage, as casual as you like. Connor was instantly on guard; Reed had never been casual about him since the day they’d met.

“Baseball bat as a murder weapon, huh?” Reed commented easily, like he was remarking on the weather. “Saw the body. Looks like someone hit a home fuckin’ run.”

Connor glanced sideways shrewdly at the detective, knowing that the man had put two and two together and had definitely gotten four. Throwing himself at Reed’s dubious graces was just about the worst outcome he could think of. While Connor trusted Reed to be morally grey enough to cover for a fellow cop, especially considering the corpse in question belonged to a cop-killer, he didn’t trust Reed not to throw him personally under a bus at the first sign of any suspicion from the higher ups. After all, justice had been served, and while Reed wouldn’t go out of his way to narc on Connor, he wouldn’t risk being labelled an accomplice to the sins of an android of all people if this ever came to light. “Home fucking run? Sounds like he struck out to me.” Connor didn’t allow a single hint of sly humour to slip into his tone, keeping his expression totally neutral, which for an android was very simple and definitely something he knew that annoyed the shit out of the other detective.

Reed barked a sound that, on anyone else, might have been a laugh. “Boss. I see how it is. Keep your head down, plastic, and this might blow over.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, detective.” Connor maintained his flat affectation, knowing it was pissing Reed off.

“Fuck you then, you artificial asshole piece of shit. See if I do you anymore favours.” Reed’s scowl was acidic as he sauntered away to his shitty Honda in the opposite corner of the garage. Connor shook his head slightly as he made his way to the bus stop, refusing to admit he was the smallest bit perturbed. It was good to know that Reed had no hard evidence, but even a case of he-says she-says would draw too much unwanted attention. Running his fingers over the smooth metal of his switchblade in his pocket as he stood patiently, Connor contemplated whether or not the Reed problem could be solved with the small addition of a little bit more violence. It wasn’t ideal, but if it came down to it and Reed couldn’t keep his mouth shut, well…

(Sometimes accidents happened.)

Hank stood with Connor as he waited lost in his thoughts, more present and clear then he’d even been, and while he disappeared as Connor climbed onto the waiting bus, Connor was sure he could feel Hanks’ shoulder pressed to his where he sat for the whole ride home.


	6. Chapter 6

“We're all ghosts. We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.”   
― Liam Callanan, The Cloud Atlas

(Connor had thousands of memories of Hank. The fall of his hair when it was shower-fresh, the exact pantone of his eyes, the way he used to curl his fingers into Sumo’s fur when he pet him, the comforting weight of their bodies pressed together in bed, the curve of his smile on the day they’d wed. Connor remembered the road trip holiday they’d taken; open windows and music up down the highway. That was the trip that the old car had finally died for the last time on. Connor recalls with perfect clarity laying across the front seat, Hank across the back, doors open and legs hanging out by the side of the road, Sumo sleeping in the grass nearby while waiting for the tow. They’d laughed and played fuck, marry, kill because it was a ridiculous day and a ridiculous situation that deserved a ridiculous game. Connor remembers the magic of that moment, of all of them together, this tiny family of three that was absolutely everything that was important in the world. Connor remembered dinner dates and shitty made for TV movies on the couch and stupid arguments that they apologized for five minutes later because they could barely stand to stay mad at each other. Connor remember walking Sumo through the park in the winter snow and mowing the grass in the summer sunshine and all those years’ worth of perfect days and happy moments all gone with the determined flash of a gun.)

(“You’re not going to leave it like this? Let them get away with it, are you?”

“No Hank,” Connor had breathed into the darkness, “I could never.” The ghost didn’t reply, but Connor was sure he’d felt his satisfaction fill the air in their- no, his; in his apartment.)

When in doubt, always follow the money.

It was one of the first thing Hank had ever taught him about investigating, and remained one of the best pieces of professional advice he’d ever received from anyone. With Pearson out of the way, all that remained was tracking down whoever had ordered the hit. Cut the head off the snake and the body died, wasn’t that how the saying went? It took weeks of careful digging; sneaking into servers and mainframes and bypassing countless digital security systems to follow the weaving, tangled trail of money from Pearson’s account to the offshore account it had originated from, and back to the head of the entire crime family. It gave Connor a grim satisfaction to know that they’d been close, that they’d been such a concern that the Boss himself had ordered the hit on Hank. Hanks’ detective instincts had always been good; too good in the end and he hadn’t survived his own damn curiosity. It drove Connor mad something, the anger. Anger at Hank for not leaving well enough alone, anger at himself for not being there, anger at his new target.

(Connor might have become a loose cannon, but at least he knew where to aim himself.)

Pamela Caine, mid-fifties, former wife of a mafia man who’d gotten made over a decade ago. He’d gone to prison and she’d stepped in, building his scattered empire back up from the ashes. He hadn’t survived prison; dead under mysterious circumstances which Connor took to mean that Caine hadn’t wanted her old man out on parole for good behavior any time soon. Since then she’d sent their two children to college and set them up in cushy jobs in the ‘family business.’ She’d also taken a lover, from what Connor could tell based on her credit card activity; expensive cologne, new suits, fancy hotel rooms booked for two people. Connor dug into him too before dismissing him; he was younger than her by over two decades, handsome and artistic with nothing else to recommend him besides a low college GPA and a lackluster employment history. He wasn’t important, wasn’t really involved in the dealing of the crime ring, and therefore didn’t matter. Connor wasn’t a monster; he wasn’t going to target any of Caine’s associates or family to get to her if he didn’t have to. What good would that do, anyways? Nothing would bring Hank back, Connor knew, but at least he’d be able to close his eyes at night if he knew the people responsible were out of commission.

(Sending them to prison would work too; Connor’s conscious was fond of reminding him. Connor didn’t listen to his conscious much lately. Hank had taught Connor everything he knew about being decent, and without him decency felt like it was in short supply.)

Over the next few months, Connor slowly built a private case file on Caine and her movements. She was good he’d give her that, but not good enough to avoid Connor’s laser-fine focus. It took time, but he was eventually able to recreate her basic schedule; track her comings and goings and get a real feel for her day-to-day. She’d ditched the lover at some point, but seemed to be a devoted mother if her weekly dinner dates with her daughters were anything to go by. What a strange contradiction, Connor supposed; both mother and murderer in one. Connor wondered if she still slept at night; if she ever lay awake like he did, surrounded by ghosts and empty and grieving, or did she just close her eyes and drift away like everyone else managed too?

Invigorated by his success, Connor split his attentions further, devoting more processor power to running his distance surveillance and information gathering simultaneously with his current investigations. He knew that his distraction was noticeable enough that it was concerning Chris; the other detective had expressed his concern no less than three times in the last several months. Connor had brushed him off a politely as possible, knowing that while concerned, Detective Miller wouldn’t push. To take the sting out of it, Connor occasionally accepted Chris’s offers of non-work related social visits; being invited to his home and getting to know his partner and their son. It helped soothe some of the rough, broken places inside of Connor to see other families still happy, still whole, and while he sometimes envied them their contentment, it usually just reminded him what he was fighting for. Peace. Safety. 

(Another goddamn monster off the street, at least. That was worth getting his hands dirty for, wasn’t it? Hank would probably agree.)

Lost in a haze of detective work both official and unofficial, Connor let another year pass. The second anniversary of Hank’s death was as terrible as the first, and Connor was sure to accept North and Markus’s heavy-handed invitation for a visit the day of. It may have been obvious to everyone what they were trying to do for him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate it nor did he want to be alone.

(But Connor was never alone now, was he? Hank’s specter had only grown bolder and more prominent, and he never left him, always at Connor’s shoulder or in the corner of the room, his eyes eternally watching. Sumo lurked at night sometimes, his warm doggy presence always a soft comfort over the jagged pain Hank’s wraith usually evoked in him.)

Dressing casually for his visit, Connor caught Hanks’ eyes the in wall-mounted mirror on the back of his apartment door as he buckled up his belt. Still shirtless, Hanks’ eyes were hot, blue fire on Connor’s synthskin. Connor froze, refusing to look away as the ghost moved forward, closing the distance as he so rarely did. Connor felt his skin prickle oddly, like static, and Hank pressed against him from behind. By all rights it should have been a warm, solid sensation the way Hanks’ body had always been warm and solid in Connor’s arms, but this is only a shadow, a memory, a cold, eerie breeze against him. Tipping his head back to rest where Hank’s shoulder should be, Connor watched in the mirror with a heavy-lidded gaze as Hank’s hands came to rest on his biceps. There was a strange dissonance between what Connor knew he was seeing and what he was actually feeling, which was nothing except the chill that the ghost always seemed to bring with him. But Hank was there in the mirror, and Connor could smell his cologne and the whisky smell that had never really left even after he’d detoxed and started attending AA meetings, and Connor had heard his footsteps and the rustle of his clothing as he had moved, and Connor was losing his mind with it. How could he be so close yet so far? How long was he meant to suffer? While Connor had taken to jealously hoarding this secret, stolen moments with his dead lover, today he found himself suddenly wishing that someone, anyone else could see what he was seeing, to confirm this haunting. At least then he would know that it wasn’t his broken self just dreaming his husband back, that is wasn’t some trick of his advanced sensors, wasn’t some deranged persistence of memory.

In the meantime, Connor stayed in the not-embrace for as long as he dared, before finally allowing himself to blink; knowing that as soon as he opened his eyes Hank would be gone again. 

(He was right, and he allowed himself exactly sixty seconds to mourn the loss before he finished dressing and left to catch his bus. Cemetery first, then Markus and North’s apartment. Connor found himself often favouring the dead to the living, these days.)

“I’m going to need an alibi for next Sunday night.” Connor said quietly to North as the cleared up the detritus from their board game. Markus had stepped out to take a call; something that wasn’t totally necessary since all androids essentially had Bluetooth headset in their brains, but it was a charming habit of his to eliminate distractions; a way of showing people that he was totally focused on them and not splitting his attention in multiple directions at once. Knowing then that he wouldn’t be listening in, Connor had decided to take advantage of this to talk privately with North.

“What?”

“I said I need an alibi-”

“I know what you said, what I meant was ‘What the fuck are you in to Connor,’ and also ‘Why?’” North’s expression was tight, her lips thin, and Connor suddenly realized for the first time that his friend, who had been banking on assistance from, might not in fact want help him. He reeled for a moment, struggling to re-align his thought process. The couple seconds of silence would have meant next to nothing to a human but North wasn’t human and as such knew exactly how fast an android processed information and formulated appropriate replies, therefore she knew he’d frozen, or more likely was stalling. 

“Does this have something to do with Hank?” North had always been like a dog with a bone, and Connor wasn’t at all surprised that she was plowing ahead, whether he was ready to keep up or not. Over her shoulder, as if he was summoned by his name, Hank suddenly appeared; like the static on a television clearing abruptly so you could finally see the picture. Connor disregarded him as best he could, but it was hard to ignore the heavy glare the phantom was projected at North’s unknowing profile. 

(The woman was so close to Connor’s husband, he was surprised they didn’t overlap. How did she not notice the temperature difference? Hank was always cold, and any space he’d been in always felt at least ten degrees cooler after he’d left.)

“North…” Connor started, unsure of whether or not he was appealing to her for agreement, or trying to figure out a way to warn her that she was dangerously close to Connor’s apparently lividly angry dead husband.

“Does this. Have something. To do. With Hank.” The slow, excruciating emphasis on her words deserved to be answered, Connor decided. What the worst that she could do? Even if she turned him in he hadn’t done anything wrong; at least nothing they could prove and North didn’t know about Pearson. 

“Yes.” The word fell like a bomb between them, and North paused from where she’d been re-shelving the game box. Turning slowly she stood stock still, weighing Connor with a measured look. Connor felt the sudden, obnoxious urge to fidget, feeling very much pinned and place by her eyes and somehow found judged and wanting. Hank’s focused gaze had moved to him now too, and that certainly wasn’t helping, either.

“Ok.”

Connor sucked an unnecessary breath between his teeth in surprise. “Ok? You’ll actually-”

“I said ok, didn’t I? RA9 help me Connor, I’ll cover for your ass. If anyone asks, you were with me. Is anyone likely to ask?”

Connor shook his head. “No, I’ll be careful. It’s more a precaution than anything. Thank you.” Connor made sure his earnestness was apparent in his tone. He had turned slightly to more fully face North as he spoke, and therefore only saw Hank suddenly vanish, apparently finished eavesdropping, out of the edge of his sightline.

“Don’t thank me” North snorted at the very idea. “And Connor? Whatever you’re up to, I don’t ever want to know.”

Connor nodded in acceptance as Markus rejoined them, conversation over but not forgotten. North was a good friend, and while she’d never approved of Connor and Hank, mostly because she disproved of humans in general, she’d never belittled or ignored Connor’s grief at Hank’s loss. If anything, Connor knew that while he didn’t have her outright support, she definitely understood the desire to do damage. North had always been and ends justify the means person, and while Connor wasn’t usually, he was starting to see the appeal, personally. He didn’t stay much longer after that; making his polite excuses and leaving. It was hard to say what had made Connor more uncomfortable at the end there; the weight of North’s knowing stare, or the lingering smell of Hanks’ cologne that no one but him had noticed.

Gaining access to the SWAT weapons lockup that Saturday was simple. Connor was able to skim Captain Allan’s access card the next time they crossed paths. Allan was in and out of the lockup several times a week; he knew that the access would raise no suspicions. Smuggling out the sniper rifle was a bit harder, but inventory of items was only done once a week, as long as it was back before Tuesday no one would be the wiser. Slipping into the precinct security camera feeds, Connor looped the footage in the lockup and the hallways to erase his presence, and then waited until the cameras showed that the so-late-night-it-was-almost-early-morning hallways were deserted before making his move, rifle in pieces and stashed in a black evidence case. He passed a few officers he knew in the lobby, tipping his head in greeting, but walking with purpose lent a casual enough air to his movements that they didn’t appear alarmed or stop to question him. He made it all the way to the bus stop and onto the bus before he allowed himself to acknowledge the ghost at this shoulder. 

“How’d I do?” He breathed out from lips that barely moved, so quietly it was less than a whisper.

“Perfect, baby.” Connor allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as the bus lurched along. He was home in no time, and passed the rest of the day going over his plans in low tones to his erstwhile husband. When evening fell, he dressed once again in the plain, dark outfit, once again donning the backpack, which was now full of the disassembled rifle. Connor knew it was a big risk using one of the DPD’s own weapons, but it was easier and left less of a trail than buying a black market one would. All he had to do was alter whatever ballistics report was generated from the retrieved bullets later, and no one would ever connect it to a DPD gun; assuming they’d even taken ballistics info from their standard-issue firearms in the first place. Connor was even careful enough to purchase his own ammo with cash at a store across town, meaning there would be none missing from inventory to raise concerns. It wasn’t prefect, but it was the best he could do and left fewer witnesses and paper trails than any other option. 

Connor was tired, you see. So very, very worn down, as empty as a broken glass would be, all rough-edged and messy. His perfect systems might have kept him in optimal functioning condition, but inside, in the smallest, most secret parts of him, he’d done nothing but scream, scream, scream for two whole years. He wasn’t sure at this point if another act of murder would make it stop, or just make the screaming louder, but when one has nothing left to lose, well, what’s to be lost by trying? Either way, by the next day, no one would ever be hurt by Caine and her people again. If no one else had to mourn what Connor mourned, then that had to be a win by some definition of the word, and it wouldn’t cost Connor anything more than a couple of lies and the handful of bullets.

(And maybe Connor’s soul; if he even had such a thing as an android. And Hank never seemed to mind, really, so who else’s opinion would matter?)

Making his was across town on foot to the building he’d previous scouted took over and hour, but Connor was patient and Hank was keeping him company so he didn’t mind the walk so much. It was hard to talk to his husband with everyone else still present on the street, but Hank didn’t mind his silence much these days, so that was alright. It was almost child play to scale the fire escape and climb to the roof, and the work of only a few minutes to unpack, assemble and load the rifle. Connor had chosen this location meticulously; it was the tallest building around, so no one would be able to get a good look at him and call the police as he got into position. It had good sightlines to the theatre entrance he knew Caine and her daughters favoured whenever they saw a play, which they did every few months as they had season’s passes for the local theater. They always lingered in the lobby as the worst of the crowds dispersed, waiting until their driver could bring the car around, especially when it was raining like it was. 

(Connor shrugged off the weather; he wasn’t bothered by the cold or by wet clothing after all, and it was kind of symbolic he felt, that things should end as they began over two years ago.)

The other patrons bled out of the theatre in a rush, umbrellas opening and jacket collars being turned up everywhere. Connor was already positioned, kneeling low enough to be inconspicuous behind the edge of the roof but without obscuring his view. Hank sat on the edge beside him, twisted sideways, one leg safely on the roof and the other dangly, which gave Connor an odd amount of anxiety considering Hank was already too dead to be killed a second time by the fall. 

“There she is. You see her, baby?” Hanks voice was even, but not loud, even in the stillness.

“Target confirmed.” Connor murmured back, peering down the scope. Caine was leaving the building now, and Connor had a gap of about seven second where she’d be perfectly lined up for the shot and not obscured by the Marquee or by the roof of the car as she climbed in. Even the umbrella that she was about to use wouldn’t be enough to fool Connor’s preconstruction software. He knew all her vital stats and the way she moved, it was the work of milliseconds to math out where here head would be even under the black fabric as she stepped out from the shelter of the overhang and toward the car, both her daughters beside her.

Seven seconds, but Connor only needed one.

Androids, even the most basic ones, were both creatures of precision and also capable of both a patience and stillness that humans could never hope to emulate. Connor was the best of them, and programmed for this, too boot. There was never a chance that he’d miss.

Double tap, just to be sure. 

The wails of Caine’s shocked, panicky children were the backdrop to which Connor snatched his gun and ran. The other advantage this building provided was that the next building to the south both had a lower roof and was close enough for someone to make the jump easily. Assuming of course, that the someone in question had android strength and agility, and also no fear of falling. Connor was across the gap, through the rooftop access and halfway down the stairs to the ground floor of the second building before Caine’s bodyguards had even scaled to the roof of the first one. The rain had already washed away any sign of Connor’s presence, an unexpected but lucky benefit. With no witnesses that had seen his face, or watched him make the leap, it was hardly any effort at all to pause in the stairwell and tear down the rifle and pack it away, shouldering his backpack and casually making his way out of the front door. The street was already full of gawkers, and the first responders were closing in fast. Connor took a moment to loop any camera feeds from the inside to hide his getaway, and then made his way onto the sidewalk, blending into the crowd. If there was one thing Connor could count on, it was that people were far more interested in a dead body than in what looked like a tired college student just trying to get home, and who didn’t want to be caught dead rubbernecking at a tragedy.

(Nothing about her death was tragic, Connor knew, but the public didn’t know who she was yet, or what she’d done. They’d learn soon, and then they’d see. In fact, the only tragedy here tonight was that Connor couldn’t hold his husband's hand as they made their way home. 


	7. Chapter 7

“Everything that’s loved lives.”   
― Mira Grant, In the Shadow of Spindrift House

It was laughably easy after having shot Caine dead for Connor to find his way back to his apartment, avoiding his neighbours to slip back through his front door unseen. He stripped naked with fingers that would be numb with cold if he had been human, tossing the soaked clothes into his laundry basket. He’ll have to wash them tomorrow, just in case there’s any traces of cordite on them, but he doubts much if any evidence of tonight’s crime survived the deluge outside. Hovering in the corner as he often did, Hank watches him with hungry eyes as he stands naked and spreads the disassembled rifle across his tiny countertop. Quick, clever fingers clean each part with a patient thoroughness, making sure to erase any trace of tonight’s activities.

(If his husband watches his hands the whole time with unbridled lust in his eyes, well, Connor knows how to take a compliment. It’s only a shame that he can’t feel Hanks’ own hands against his skin anymore.)

(_Connor would give anything to feel Hank properly just one more time._)

Too keyed up to pantomime the habit of false sleep, Connor paces instead; wall to wall, like a caged animal, feral and sleek and barely hiding his teeth. Hank watches but says nothing, what’s even left to say? It’s over now, and for the first time in two year Connor’s at a loss, doesn’t even know what to do with himself now that he doesn’t have this albatross around his neck anymore. He’s so caught up in his whirling thoughts that he almost ignores the alarm he’d set to rouse himself for work. He dresses on autopilot and strides out the door, and it almost to the bus stop before he realizes that Hank has not followed him. The bus ride that follows is the quietest, most agonizing bus ride Connor has had in months without the constant company of his ghostly husband. Connor had gotten used to him being at his side, from feeling his cold not-a-touch along his side, to hissing comments under his breath to him whenever he thought that the din from the engine and the other passengers would cover it. 

(Connor may have lost his entire fucking mind, but that didn’t mean that everyone else needed to know about it. Crazy people didn’t get to keep their badges, after all, and he didn’t have much beyond his work to keep him going anymore.)

“You seem distracted lately.” Connor had felt a brief flare of panic when Fowler had called him into his office, afraid for a moment that they’d found some trace of him at the crime scene, or that Reed had ratted him out. Not having Hank at his back was just adding an extra layer to the feeling of paranoia creeping up his spine. But if Reed had linked the Caine assassination to the murder of Pearson from a year ago, he hadn’t given any sign of it, and Captain Fowler looked more like a concerned boss than a wrathful cop about to throw him into cuffs and lose the keys.

(Connor appreciated that. He’d hate to have to fight his way out of the precinct otherwise, and that would be… messy, and ultimately very inconvenient.)

“I suppose I have been… a little stuck in my head, lately.” Connor allowed the admission, both because it was impossible to deny and also knowing it would ingratiate Fowler further to him. Android though he was, it was an open secret that the boss had a soft spot for the detective that had once been married to his good friend, and Hank’s untimely death hadn’t changed that. “If you’re concerned about my performance I assure you, I am still perfectly capable of fulfilling my responsibilities to the department-”

“Of course not, Jesus, no your performance is as impeccable as always. I mean, personally, from you to me, I think you should take some time. You’ve been a real trooper these past couple years, but man, you got dealt a shit hand and I think it’s catching up to you. There’s no shame in taking a damn vacation to deal with shit, you know? You’ve got the leave time banked; I think you should use some of it. You’ve earned the break.” Fowler looked vaguely uncomfortable in the way that a lot of humans did when emotional conversation were occurring. Connor did him the favour of letting their eye contact break. Not only would it make the Captain feel less like he was under the microscope, but it would also lend an air of emotional vulnerability to Connor’s response.

“I… You’re probably right. It has been… difficult, lately.” Connor said, his right hand finding the wedding ring he still wore out of long habit and twisting it around and around his finger. “I had hoped that some time would help, but it feels worse some days, to be honest. As much as I’ve appreciated the routine and the structure to my days, maybe some time and space would not be remiss.” Fowler seems relieved that Connor hasn’t fought him on the issue, and they spend the next ten minutes hashing out the details. Fowler accompanies him to speak to Chris, and ensure that the handoff of any active cases is smooth. Connor’s partner will be working with Reed for the next few weeks while Connor burns through his accumulated and as-of-yet untouched leave time, and Connor finds himself ignoring a curious, penetrating stare from Reed as Chris shakes his hand and wishes him well.

It takes Connor a few extra minutes to clear his desk, and another twenty to cautiously return the rifle to the lockup in the perfect reverse of his original theft, but subterfuge is easy when no one suspects a thing. He passes Reed on a smoke break as he heads to the bus stop, and nods in acknowledgement as he goes. Reed’s narrowed-eyed glance is a bit telling, but Connor doesn’t let himself shrink or falter. It’s okay if Reed’s suspicious, Connor decides. Reed has no evidence except for a couple of conversations in which Connor admitted nothing, and circumstantial evidence wouldn’t even be enough for an arrest warrant, much less a conviction. This certainty tides him over on the bus ride home.

(Of course, if it came down to it, Connor would do what he had to. He still had that switchblade after all, which almost never left his pocket, and who’d miss someone like Reed anyways? He was bigoted, cruel, and rude, Connor would be doing both the department and himself a favour.)

Once back at the apartment, Connor busies himself by heading out to do laundry, and then by scrubbing down the entire apartment, just in case. Keeping busy helps fill that gap where Hanks’ ghost used to be, and Connor loses hours that way, mind so task-focused he’s blanked out anything beyond accomplishing the next objective in his mental queue. It’s full dark by the time he’s done, the sunset made swifter by the gathering clouds that threatened to pour down again as they had the day before. He’s closing his curtains when the wild, random thought strikes him from out of nowhere. The whole world seems to sit expectant and waiting as Connor turns the idea over and over in his head.

It was crazy. Absolute madness.

_And yet…_

Connor is out the door and down the hall almost before he realizes he’s moving. Letting his capable feet take over, he hits the street and hails the first auto cab he can. The ride is a little over twenty minutes, and by the time he arrives the storm has broken and rain is sheeting down around him like it had both yesterday, and on a dark day two years ago.

The house is dark, deserted; the yard two years overgrown, the curtains faded, and the porch paint peeling and weathered. Connor’s nearly soaked by the time he reaches the driveway, the oil stains on the wet concrete are so nostalgic it’s like a knife in Connor’s gut; same with the creak of the porch step, the sagging Christmas lights they’d never got around to taking down. The door lock is stiff to turn with the disuse but it gives eventually to Connor’s coaxing. (He’d never stopped carrying his key. Why would he? He knew someday he’d be back.) Closing and locking the door behind him, Connor eschews the light switch, knowing there was no power anyways. The air is thick and musty; with the smell of old blood lingering like an iron aftertaste in the back of Connor’s throat. Studiously ignoring the old carnage in the living room to his right, Connor instead heads left, down the hall to the bedroom, peelings off the layer of his clothing one by one and he goes, leaving them to fall to the dusty carpet in damp little piles. 

The bedroom is almost as he left it, and for a moment Connor is taken back, to the days before his world turned upside down. Sure, if he stares too closely, he can see all the places that the investigating officers poked and prodded during their routine evidence gathering; folding their fingers into every aspect of Connor’s private existence like some unknown clue to unlock the mystery of Hank’s murder would shake loose if they did. It’s easy to let that fade to the background though, and let the memories flood vividly to the forefront of his mind. Feeling almost giddy with what might be fear, Connor slides naked into their bed. The once-white sheets are stiff, smell old, and have gone grey with two years of neglect, but that hardly matters to Connor now. He doesn’t know what to expect anymore; Connor’s days are wide open now, no distractions in sight, with his ends finally met and a suddenly absent husband-shaped haunt. Is Hank gone forever? Was he done with Connor now that justice had been meted? Would Connor have nothing left to look forward to except the drudgery of endless, empty days for the rest of his functional days? Could he rest now, finally? Did he even dare to try?

The snuffling sound of Sumo taking his place at the foot of the bed was a relief so great Connor had to bite back a sob. He listened in the dark as his dog curled up for the night, knowing deep in his electronic soul what was coming next. Sure enough, the bed creaked and mattress slumped, the space under the blankets cooling abruptly as Hank climbed in beside him. Connor didn’t turn his head, didn’t breathe, didn’t so much as twitch as Hank settled in; the firm, steady weight at Connor’s side more vivid and lifelike then it had been in two long, lonesome years. It was an eternal, pregnant moment before Connor reached out with his left hand, slipping across the sheets until, finally, finally, _finally, goddamn, _his hand met Hank’s broad, grave-cold hand, which turned palm-up on the sheets so their fingers could intertwine the way they had a thousand times before. Connor’s wedding ring pressed into Hank’s palm, the sensation so familiar it felt bright and sharp. 

“Don’t cry baby, just go to sleep.” Connor swiped at the tears on his face with the hand that wasn’t clutching his husband tight, deciding to take the man’s good advice at face value. Connor had waited too long to experience this moment again to waste time arguing with himself over what he was or was not allowed to have.

And for the first time since Connor had come home and almost tripped over Hank’s corpse, he lay in bed and let his eyes close to sleep.

Tucked in warm and comfortable, with his husband beside him; it was time to rest, at last.

And then-

_Peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High five to everyone who stuck with this horror show until the end. Had a ton of fun writing this, hope you enjoyed reading it just as much.


End file.
